The Shadow of Sherlock
by Redderhead
Summary: Doctor John Watson had a ghost. Was it real? Was it his little brain at work? Sherlock REUNION FIC. JOHNLOCK. If uninterested, please do not read.


_Once more ladies and gents; I sadly do not own any of the magnificent characters portrayed in the short stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle OR BBC Sherlock OR its' deliciously talented actors/actresses. This story is a long one; slightly rambly in places but hopefully a hit with you wonderful lot._

_Enjoy & remember; feedback is my drug!_

_**The Shadow of Sherlock**_

Sherlock was dead. John knew that. Why the consulting detective was currently pacing behind his chair, John couldn't explain.

"Will you stop that" John said harshly to the genius behind him.

Lestrade looked across the meeting table at John with worry around his eyes.

"Is everything Ok, John?" Greg asked gently.

In the corner; Donovan and Anderson exchanged a glance.

"Yes" John said as he watched Sherlock sit down beside him in the empty chair. "Sorry, so you say that the woman was shot in the head?" John continued, directing his question to DI Lestrade.

"Yes, she was shot in the forehead; I thought it was a pretty open and shut case, however, there was something that didn't add up." The salt and pepper haired detective leaned across the table and pushed an A4 stapled report toward the doctor. "Post mortem says poison was to blame."

John eyed the paperwork closely, Sherlock beside him rubber-necking at the report.

"Ah, I see. The bullet _was_ cause of death. That's been wrongly calculated; the 'poison' is actually Clostridium Botulinum, if she didn't get shot, she would have died from eating too much uncooked tinned food." John finished as he handed back the report and smiled at Sherlock.

"Oh right, thanks John, that makes it easier, I'll continue with the investigation…are you sure you're ok?" Greg asked tentatively eyeing John smiling at the empty chair beside him.

"Yes, yes, absolutely fine" John said as he stood to leave the room.

"John, if there is anything you need; let me know?" Greg asked, standing to shake the doctors' hand.

"Gladly. Thanks Greg" John said before he walked out of the door.

"See what you've done?" John said quietly as he approached the street exit. "You've made me look like a right fruit cake. Can't you haunt someone else?" he said, obviously frustrated. The doctor glanced surreptitiously to his follower and saw him wordlessly shrug.

John waved down a taxi and clambered inside, awkwardly holding the door open for Sherlock to follow.

The ex-soldier had tried to ignore his ghost, however, it seemed impossible. He tried to send it on a bus, it reappeared at his side, John tried to leave it in the graveyard but it followed him home. He had finally tried talking to it; it didn't talk back.

It was cruel; representing his dead friend down to the very last detail, following him everywhere but never guiding, never helping, just being.

John went to his therapist; as expected she thought the ghost of Sherlock was a manifestation, made by John's mind from suppressed guilt. Amateur.

John attempted to carry on with life, helping the police when he could and working part time at the local surgery. Sherlock would always be with him outside of Baker Street; whether sitting on the examination bench in his consulting room or leaning against the wall of a public toilet cubicle, the tables had turned since that fatal day and Sherlock would now follow John instead of John following Sherlock.

Once in Baker Street, however, John would ascend the stairs to his room and Sherlock would never follow. The only place John felt truly alone was in his bedroom.

In the morning; Sherlock would be sitting in his regular armchair; eyeing John silently until John was about to leave. Sherlock would follow obediently until they returned home and he would take to his armchair once more.

John stopped abusing the apparition six months ago, he decided that a vision of the great man was better than nothing, and accepted him as his follower.

The doctor still visited the graveyard; stood at the foot of the grave and spoke to the, now dull, marble stone which his ghost sat upon, looking bored.

It had been three long years. John wondered if the Sherlock Spectre would be a lifelong visitor as he sat staring at him in their old living room, wondering if he was here because of unfinished business, whether he could help, whether he wanted to.

"Sherlock, why are you here? I mean, don't get me wrong it's nice to see you; but you died. It's not fair to taunt me with this vision of you" John said waving his arm towards the ghost vaguely.

As usual, there was no answer. Sherlock simply sat, staring at him, unmoving. John eyed the man angrily.

"God damnit, why don't you speak? It would be a hell of a lot easier" John muttered in frustration, he ran his hands through his short blonde hair and looked to the floor before allowing a long stare at his old flatmate.

He saw Sherlock's usual attire; his tight suit trousers and always a dark purple tailored shirt. The detective constantly wore his long woollen coat and scarf, no matter the location or the season; it was always there; even now in their warm living room he wore it, his hands buried deep in its' pockets.

"I loved you, y'know" John said quietly, looking briefly down at his right hand on the arm of his homely chair and back up to the dark haired ghost. "From the moment I met you; I loved you. I loved you right up until the minute you threw yourself from that building…" John looked back up to the figure; its' facial expression one of mild interest. "…and then I hated you." John said bitterly; looking murderously at the spectre. "You lied to me, after all this - that time together, you. Lied. To. Me. And you thought I would buy it" John spat in disgust.

He stood from his chair and approached the kitchen; he filled the kettle, ignoring the apparition now sitting on the kitchen counter. John had gotten used to how fast the ghost could move by now, it was normal for it to be in the next room John would walk into in Baker Street.

Finally John looked up into the face of the apparition, it resembled an innocence John had never seen before on Sherlock's face, almost a pleading behind his eyes. John smiled slightly;

"I'm sorry. I just miss you. I miss you so much, Sherlock" John muttered as he poured the kettle's contents into the teapot.

"John? Are you ok? I thought I heard talking?" Mrs Hudson asked as she entered the kitchen, dust cloth in hand.

John smiled as Sherlock turned his head towards their landlady, smiling warmly in her direction.

"Yes, I'm fine thank you Mrs Hudson, and you? How's things downstairs?" John asked lightly, turning towards her and leaning back on the bunker beside Sherlock's knee, his arms folded across his chest.

Mrs Hudson smiled "Yes, alright thank you dear, I was wondering if you had…erm…well, John, there is a really bad smell coming from _his_ room" she said awkwardly.

John froze. He hadn't been in Sherlock's room in over a year and it was fast becoming obvious that they would have to enter it sooner or later.

"I'll check it out." He said stiffly and managed a small smile.

"Thank you dear." Mrs Hudson said before bustling down the staircase once more. John looked up at Sherlock with eyebrows raised questionably. Sherlock shook his head, raising his hands in a 'not guilty' gesture.

John sighed and nodded his head towards Sherlock's room; as expected the apparition disappeared.

John opened the bedroom door slowly, flicking on the main light. He stood inside the room and looked carefully around at it.

The bed was made and the curtains were drawn. It was empty; apart from the ghost sitting cross legged at the foot of his own bed.

"What have you got in here, Sherlock, it smells really bad" John said with his hand over his nose and mouth. Sherlock looked blankly at him as John walked around the bed and peered underneath it; nothing there. He opened the chest of drawers; the clothes that lined them hid nothing of a fragrant quality. John made his way towards the wardrobe, cautiously; he opened the right door before allowing the left to fall open of its own accord.

John didn't immediately see anything of great consequence, there was clothes, lots of Sherlock's tailored shirts; subconsciously, John noted the absence of the deep purple one before he stretched his arms out and felt for the back of the cupboard. Whether John was expecting a trip to Narnia or not he didn't know, but he found the back of the wooden wardrobe with no hassle and dismissed it being a hiding place for any rotting experiments.

John was about to close the doors when he spotted a shoebox in the bottom of the cupboard. He knelt down and retrieved the box before carrying it to the bed. He sat beside his apparition and opened the lid; Sherlock eying it cautiously over his shoulder.

John immediately returned his hand to his mouth and nose as the smell hit him; inside the box lay several items; the smelliest being a small cube of silver material. John stared at it unsure what it was for several moments; it smelt like rotten eggs and was extremely cold. John took it straight to the kitchen and placed it inside a zip closed sandwich bag, washing his hands as he looked at the bag in disgust.

He returned to the shoe box and sat down once more beside his ghost; there were several other items; an open jar of strawberry jam – the use by date was last year and there was still a few dregs in the bottom, John paused as he looked at the mouldy glass - it was the real strawberry jam, his favourite food. He put the jar aside ready to throw out when he had finished.

There was a wrist watch, encased in a military green strap; John picked it up and let a small laugh escape his throat; he thought he had lost that watch years ago, it was pulled from his wrist when he had been carrying/helping Sherlock home after Irene Adler had drugged him, he just supposed it had fallen in the street, lost forever.

John smiled as he gently laid the watch back into the box and looked at the remaining items;

A CD lay at the bottom with no markings on it and underneath the CD there was a small book. John opened the book and flicked through the pages. At first it appeared to be empty but then John stopped dead on an isolated page in the middle. It was a page of his name. 'Doctor John Hamish Watson' written over and over and over, repeated hundreds of times on the one small page in Sherlock's elegant handwriting. John looked up at the ghost questioningly; Sherlock just returned his glance mysteriously.

"You were one strange man, Sherlock" John said quietly as he replaced the lid on the shoebox and left the box on the chest of drawers, taking with him the CD and mouldy jam jar.

After washing out the jam jar and throwing it into the bin, John approached the DVD player with the CD.

There were nineteen tracks on the CD. It was music, modern music. John frowned, some of the songs he had never once heard before, let alone heard Sherlock listening to.

John listened carefully to the lyrics sitting close to Sherlock's ghost, suddenly wishing he could hold its' hand.

A few lines of a few of the songs really hit home with John and he found himself suddenly forlorn and upset; replaying memories that fit the words perfectly;

'_Well I was moving at the speed of sound.  
>Head-spinning, couldn't find my way around, and<br>Didn't know that I was going down.  
>Yeah, yeah.<br>Where I've been, well it's all a blur.  
>What I was looking for, I'm not sure.<br>Too late and didn't see it coming.  
>Yeah, yeah.<em>

_And then I crashed into you,_  
><em>And I went up in flames.<em>  
><em>Could've been the death of me,<em>  
><em>But then you breathed your breath in me.<em>  
><em>And I crashed into you,<em>  
><em>Like a runaway train.<em>  
><em>You will consume me,<em>  
><em>But I can't walk away.'<em>

John let out a sob as he listened to the song; the voice was rough and the music was far from slow but it made him feel so lost. He _had _crashed into Sherlock. He _didn't_ realise how bad things were until Sherlock pulled him to his feet; restored the soldier to a man once more.

The song finished and John went to rub his face; feeling suddenly pathetic. The next song started regardless of John's mood and he was about to switch it off when he heard the tune was rather upbeat; it had an odd sort of bounce to it;

_Your smile sets my heart aflame.  
>Electrocute me with your eyes.<br>The very mention of your name,  
>My stomach fills with butterflies.<br>Your love is better than cocaine  
>I need you more than oxygen.<br>Oh God I've got it bad again,  
>An o-b-s-e-s-s-i-o-n.<br>I know your middle name.  
>I've got a lock of your hair.<br>I'm just a little bit insane,  
>Cause I think I see you everywhere.<br>My friends, they just don't understand.  
>They cannot see my point of view.<br>They say it's gotten out of hand,  
>And I'm obsessed with you.<br>*_

John laughed as he heard this song; he tried hard to keep up with words and even found himself smiling at points; the song was Sherlock all over…or was it John himself?

_You and me, we were meant to be.  
>We live happily in my fantasy.<br>We go walking down the aisle,  
>Yeah you look at me and smile.<br>My alarm clock rings, I wake up in denial._

_I want to get next to you._  
><em>Yeah I love all the things you do.<em>  
><em>I want to get close to you.<em>  
><em>You are my dream come true…<em>

John sat still, almost as if he would explode if he moved. He turned his head to the side to view his clueless apparition; his heart hammering in his chest. Did Sherlock know when he was alive? Did John really not keep it secret that he loved the younger man? Did Sherlock love him back before he died? Did he make this CD at all?

It was late when John emerged from his thinking trance. His mind not making a decision in the hour or so he had sat there. The CD had finished a while ago and the only sound that could be heard was now the ticking clock on the mantelpiece.

Sherlock had made his way back to the next days starting position and was eying the door; ready for John to reappear in the morning.

"Good night Sherlock" John said tiredly as he approached the stairs and went to bed.

The next morning was no different; Sherlock was there when John entered the living room, he was sitting in the empty bath as John brushed his teeth and he was sitting beside him in the taxi to the surgery.

John was used to the looks he got when he held the doors open for longer than necessary and when he spoke to himself, but he didn't mind it, not now. The day was no different until later that evening.

John sat down with a groan in his usual chair beside the fire, Sherlock sitting quietly opposite. John smiled to the ghost;

"What a day, huh?" He asked pointlessly. "What did you think of Mrs Garner's bunion? Was pretty gross wasn't it?" He laughed lightly and received a warm smile for his efforts.

John stood up and fixed his jumper as he walked to the kitchen, already spying his ghost on the kitchen counter beside the kettle.

"You never used to do that" John said with a small smile; "but then, you're _Sherlock_ you never did anything ordinary". The apparition in the kitchen smiled again and John continued to make tea.

As John waited for the kettle to boil he resumed his stance of leaning back on the kitchen counter about to cross his arms when he stopped short; the ghost was sitting back in his usual armchair, but as he turned his head, the doctor saw the Sherlock still sitting on the bunker beside him.

"Oh god, there's two of you?" John demanded incredulously. "There isn't supposed to be _one _of you here and now you can divide?"

Both Sherlocks' stared dumbly at John in reply.

"Great. I'm now twice the fruit cake I was a few hours ago" John mumbled as he poured the kettles' contents into the teapot.

The ex-soldier returned to his seat in the usual armchair and watched Sherlock curiously, nothing was different about him, he was the same as he had been since the death of his best friend, coat and all.

Curiosity took over and he threw a glance over his shoulder; the ghost on the kitchen counter smiled lightly back at him. They were shadows, that's all they were.

John suddenly paused as he noticed something odd; the Sherlock on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs and looking appreciatively around him, was not wearing his winter coat…or his scarf.

John closed his eyes and tried to squeeze out the hope that had appeared in the very corner of his brain. When he had opened them, the happier of the two apparitions was gone.

John felt his heart drop a few centimetres in his chest as he turned to see that the armchair version of Sherlock was still there.

"What is it that you want?" He said tiredly as he gazed intently at Sherlock.

There was no answer.

John eyed the laptops sitting together on the table behind Sherlock. He had not touched any of Sherlock's belongings in the living room.

Opening the dusty lid of the deceased man's laptop he pressed the power button. Nothing happened. John let a sigh escape his lips – of course the battery would be dead; it hadn't been used in three years!

Once John had plugged the appliance in he waited for it to load. John looked calmly at the ghost sitting on the desk beside him, a look of contentment on his face.

Once the laptop had loaded, John saw a file on the desktop that immediately intrigued him. Itunes. John stared at it. _Sherlock _had _itunes_?

John smiled and he opened the program, looking over the twenty one songs in front of him. So Sherlock had made that CD. What for though, John did not know. He sighed as he looked through several of Sherlock's personal folders, all case notes, photographs of various murders and the only web browser favourite was John's blog.

John sighed in defeat as he shut down the laptop and his ghost moved back to his abandoned armchair.

John stood from his chair and approached the staircase, slowly and silently ascending them to his room, leaving the original apparition sitting alone as per usual.

The next day, John was quiet as he readied himself to visit Sherlock's grave. It was Saturday; the day John usually made this trip. The ex-soldier was quiet as he sat in the back of the taxi beside the shadow of his former friend, awaiting the destination he knew like the back of his hand now.

The walk was long but the sun was warm as John made his way through the mass of grave's and headstones towards the well known tree and worn stone.

"Good Morning" John said lightly as he took a seat on the grass opposite the black stone, crossing his legs and watching as his shadow took his normal perch against the stone, looking around him and settling his focus down on John.

"It's been a busy week. Lestrade hasn't contacted me for a while; I think he thinks I'm crazy now. Quite rightly I suppose." John turned his attention to the cropped grass in front of him and he combed through it with his fingers while talking.

"I saw two of you last night. Explain that one if you will. You would probably deduce my insanity from my left trouser leg and have me sent off to the mental institution." John laughed bitterly as he said this.

"I just wish I could touch them" John whispered momentarily lost in thought.

"Have you tried?" A deep baritone voice reached John's ears, so achingly familiar that John felt a pang of horror in his stomach and his chest constricted.

John slowly looked up at Sherlock sitting on the edge of the headstone, but the ghosts' face was one of calm clueless-ness. John looked around him wildly for any sign of the secondary Sherlock, when there was none; John returned his glance to the ghost sitting in front of him.

"No, I don't suppose I have." John said slowly, cautiously watching the apparition. "But what would be the point? It would shatter the image, might even make it disappear." He continued sadly. "I'd much rather be crazy and seeing ghosts than not seeing you at all."

The Sherlock in front of John looked sadly down at him and John found he could not stand the stare, he returned his gaze to the green summers grass below his leg.

"Try" came the voice again. John snapped his head up, staring at Sherlock suspiciously; he then stood to his feet and looked around him once more. Upon seeing no body else in the vicinity; John approached the ghost with a shaking outstretched hand, he blinked away a tear to clear his vision as he felt his hand connect with material.

John stared in a mixture of horror, awe and fear as he realised his ghost had substance. Sherlock watched him carefully as John's hands flew over the material of his jacket, feeling every inch of it.

"How?" John asked, his eyes fast becoming red with tears and fright.

Sherlock stood; ready to catch John should the worst happen.

"John" the ghost murmured worry etched into every line in his face.

"No, no, you cannot talk, remember? I've tried for three years to make you talk and you _don't. _That is _not _how this works. Stop it _now_." John demanded, taking a step back and scrunching his face up against the tears.

Sherlock stood still as he was ordered and nodded his head.

"I am absolutely crazy. All this time, thinking you were a ghost. You're actually a piece of imagination. You are something wrong in here" John shouted, pointing to his head and staring wildly about himself.

"I'm going to the hospital. You stay _here._" John said as he marched off, frantically rubbing the tears from his face with the cuff of his checker shirt.

When John had flagged down a taxi and clambered inside it, he automatically held the cab door open for his follower, but none came. John's insides froze as he whirled around on the spot of pavement, he was alone.

"Lost somethin' mate?" The cabbie asked with slight amusement.

"No, some_one_" John said. "Thanks anyway, I'd better go and get him" he murmured as he closed the cab door and walked briskly back to the grave.

The tall man was standing with his back to John as he looked upon his own modest grave stone. How morbid of the git. John was only a few yards away when Sherlock turned to see John, receiving him with one of his warm smiles.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, you know I only miss you." John said once he had reached his lost ghost.

"That's ok, John" the taller man answered.

John stared up at the brunette detective.

"You can talk now then, eh? When did that upgrade come in?" John asked causally, seemingly over his initial fright.

"John, I'm not a ghost. I am real. I am here." Sherlock said gently, reaching out for John's limp hand and laying it upon his own chest.

"That's not fair" John said, biting back the sadness he felt.

"I'm sorry, John" Sherlock said quietly, his face full of sadness.

"I have to go" John frowned, looking down at the ground and back up at Sherlock. "Are you coming?" he asked ignoring the screaming questions in his brain.

Sherlock nodded and John felt calm again, removing his hand from the apparitions' chest and heading for the road once more. This time the ghost followed obediently and got into the cab as John held the door open for him.

Once back in Baker Street John jumped up the stairs and went straight to his bedroom, sitting quietly on his bed. As he sat there, Sherlock appeared at the ajar door.

John stood immediately, defensive of his territory.

"No. No. _No_" John said aggressively. "What is with you today? Why are you different? You know this is the only place you do not follow me"

Sherlock didn't answer straight away; instead, he fixed John with an odd stare.

The pair stood facing each other in a stand off.

Finally, Sherlock made the first move and walked towards the smaller man, _pushing _the door fully open.

"John, tell me what you see" he asked calmly.

John glanced back to his bed and saw the secondary Sherlock. He was sitting in his coat, watching the events unfold with his usual baffled expression.

"I see; my ghosts" John whispered, his eyes watering once more.

"Ghosts? How many?" Sherlock queried.

"Well, there's you and there's him, can you not see each other?" John asked as he pointed at each one in turn.

"Tell him he is no longer needed" Sherlock said firmly.

John looked up at him in fear. "Are you here to replace him?" he asked, not stopping to think of the absurdity of this question.

Sherlock smiled; "That depends." He murmured as he surveyed John from a distance of two feet.

"On what?" John squeaked.

"On you. How can there be a _ghost_…" Sherlock started, making contact with John's hand for the second time that day. "…when the _person_ has not died."

John looked from one to the other and finally turned to the Sherlock on the bed;

"I'm so confused." John murmured, his face mirroring his words.

"You need to tell the person on the bed to leave. He is obsolete" Sherlock urged quietly, still holding John's hand loosely.

John stood still for an agonising moment; watching Sherlock's narrowed eyes closely before he approached the bed and sat on the edge beside the smiling ghost.

"Thank you, for being with me. I think…I think you can go now. Is that ok?" John explained painfully, blinking furiously to keep the emotions unbidden.

The silent Sherlock looked up at John with a sad smile as he nodded gracefully, disappearing at once.

"Has he gone?" Sherlock asked the doctor, looking down at the broken man as he turned to face him with watery red eyes.

John nodded and looked to the floor.

Sherlock swooped to his knees in front of John.

"John, I am real, I am here. What you were seeing was not an apparition, not a ghost. It was a projection. Simply your little brain protecting itself." Sherlock smiled as he placed a hand either side of John's knees against the mattress. The detective had been back for more than a week, surveying his friend from the shadows. He had played the spectre, he had remained hidden; he knew how careful he had to be as John's sanity was held in the balance.

"Am I crazy?" John asked pleadingly.

"Only as crazy as I am" Sherlock murmured with a smile.

John then noticed the absence of the coat.

"Where is your coat?" John asked, very aware of their proximity.

"John, its July. I couldn't wear that coat in this heat" Sherlock said incredulously.

"I like the coat" John murmured, a tear broke free from John's eyes as he looked at Sherlock with a mixture of fear and anticipation. "Sher..." John paused as he swallowed a sob, he blinked and fixed his friend with a painful stare; "Hold me. Please hold me" he eventually said hating himself for sounding so weak.

Sherlock felt something break, he felt something give in immediately, an unusual and painful feeling deep in his chest. The tall detective forcefully pulled John from the bed to the floorboards beside him and wrapped his arms tightly around his back. John's breath caught in his throat at the physical contact before he buried his face in the neck in front of him.

They sat on the floor; Sherlock sitting back on his heels with John leaning into him, a mass of unmoving limbs in tow. Once John had calmed and Sherlock's knees were starting to ache, the shorter of the two pulled away to look up at his detective.

"How do I know you are real?" John whispered tentatively. "The real Sherlock would not have just done that" he smiled ruefully. "He would have told me to stop being pathetic."

"Would you prefer it if I had said that?" Sherlock contested coldly.

John blinked as he looked up at Sherlock from their 2 inch distance.

"No…If you are real..." John said quietly as he reached a shaking hand up to Sherlock's jaw.

Sherlock watched John dubiously, trying and failing to deduce what he was about to do.

"…Just give me this chance" John murmured as he clambered onto his knees in front of Sherlock, he used his other hand to frame the brunette's face, holding onto him firmly. Sherlock drew in a breath as he watched John approach with wide grey eyes.

John closed his own eyes and leaned in; placing his lips so delicately on Sherlock's that it could have been a dream.

Sherlock instantly wrapped his arms around the smaller man once more, pulling him into him. Before long they were hungrily and brutally attacking each others mouths, spilling every emotion into their passionate embrace.

John felt the long fingers clutching at his shoulder blades; he felt Sherlock's eager intentions below him and most of all he felt that warm delicious mouth moving against his own.

Sherlock was real.

When Sherlock moved a hand to John's jaw, tilting it up slightly to break the kiss they shared a gaze.

"I didn't think you were-" Sherlock started in a breathless whisper.

"Gay? I'm not" John said with a slight smile at Sherlock's sudden confusion. "I'm not gay because you are not a man" the soldier stated with confidence.

"John, I really am here-" Sherlock started once more being cut off by John;

"You're a real life super hero" John whispered against the taller man's lips.

Sherlock smiled and accepted John's mouth once more.

Once the pair had managed to extricate themselves from each other, they slowly walked down the stairs into the living room, Sherlock approaching his usual armchair and John shifting in the direction of the kettle.

"John, I went to the shop and bought some –" Mrs Hudson stopped mid fuss as she looked up from her bags when reaching the top step.

"John" Sherlock shouted in warning. John rushed to the corridor just in time to catch their landlady before she toppled back down the steps.

Sherlock sat still and watched the scene as John helped Mrs Hudson to his armchair.

"Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson said meekly.

John smiled widely at his flatmate as the detective moved to his knees once more, this time in front of their landlady to envelope her in a hug.

The army doctor had to turn away as he felt more tears prickling into his eyes, he couldn't believe this was really happening, Sherlock was really here. However, when John reached the kettle once more he heard a commotion and returned to the living room in time to see Mrs Hudson beating the detective with a leek she had bought at the shop.

John didn't react straight away, he simply watched on in shock as his kind and gentle landlady attacked his former flatmate.

"How. Dare. You. Do. That. Poor John. Living. All. This. Time!" Mrs Hudson was shrieking, punctuating her words with a thwack from the deadly vegetable.

Sherlock simply stood; his arms up to protect his head as he took the harsh beating from the lady half his height.

Once Mrs Hudson had seemingly tired out she let out an uncontrolled sob and dropped the frail leek to the floor. Sherlock took this as an opportunity and wrapped his arms around her once more.

The room had calmed when the three sat in close proximity drinking tea.

Sherlock told of where he had been; how he had had to remain away from them to protect them and how he had been back a couple of weeks to assess the situation. John looked up at Sherlock then;

"Were you, did you…" John prompted but did not actually ask.

"Yes John, I posed as your ghost for a little part of that time" Sherlock said quietly, not looking at the doctor; "I had to assess your mental health, once I had established it was a mind manifestation, I knew it was ok to come back"

Mrs Hudson looked between the two awkwardly.

"You saw ghosts?" She finally asked John in worry.

"Just the one it turns out" John said with a genuine smile.

"How long for?" She pressed.

"Oh, since the funeral, he didn't talk and he always wore his coat, just followed me everywhere, it was damn annoying" John said casually. He felt amazingly calm and relaxed, more so than he had felt in 3 and a half years.

Sherlock smiled up at John proudly.

"John, you never said…" Mrs Hudson started but left it unfinished.

"Mrs Hudson, you were worried enough; John didn't tell anyone, apart from his therapist – who you really should fire, John, she really has got it all wrong. – He wasn't about to tell everyone he could see _me_" Sherlock reeled off in one breath.

John beamed at Mrs Hudson, he had never been as happy as he was right now, perched on the armrest beside his old friend.

Mrs Hudson returned the smile warmly and looked back to Sherlock;

"Well, all I can say is you have a lot of time to make up for, young man." She said as she stood from the armchair and retrieved her leek. The glance between the two men did not go unnoticed by the woman as she placed the freshly purchased milk in their fridge before tottering down the stairs with a smile on her face.

The two men sat in silence for a bit before John looked down at Sherlock with a smile;

"Dinner?" the doctor asked.

"Starving" the detective replied.

000000000000

Angelo's restaurant was unusually quiet. Sherlock had insisted on wearing a disguise; announcing his appearance in public would need to wait for another day.

John sat at the table admiring Sherlock's blonde wig. It was a short style and had an unusually flattering shape atop the mans' head. It was combed pristinely down at the front and sides. He also wore silver rimmed spectacles perched across his nose and a cravat around his neck under a crisp white shirt collar.

It really was a very good disguise; threw Angelo off the scent for definite.

After a civilised main course and dessert the two men continued to chat idly and finish their wine before walking the 5 minute walk back to Baker Street under the cover of darkness. It was surreal.

John watched as passers-by glanced at him and Sherlock, he was very aware of the women admiring the taller man and he looked to the cracked pavement each time he saw it. There was a large group of females exiting a pub just in front of where the two were walking. John heard the wolf whistles and the badly muffled sentiments from the women but he did not look one of them in the eye. Sherlock seemed to sense John's frustration and firmly grasped the doctor's hand with his own.

"Such a waste" one of the larger women said distastefully over the sad groans of the others.

Sherlock snorted with laughter as he looked down at John, who smiled back, gripping his hand tightly. Sherlock decided then to pull John's arm through his own, walking arm in arm back to their home.

John blushed furiously as people passed them by; there was a mixed reaction now, most of the women would smile warmly and most of the men would frown disapprovingly at them.

Sherlock and John, however, didn't care. It had been a _very_ long day and they just wanted to be at home, together.

"Good night then" John said gently as he let go of Sherlock's arm at the top of their staircase.

"John, do you not want to stay?" Sherlock asked awkwardly. John looked up at him with confusion; "Stay with me in my room" the taller man stated, removing his false glasses. John nodded eagerly, following Sherlock into the dusty bedroom.

As the light switched on Sherlock spotted the shoebox immediately, sitting innocently on the chest of drawers; so very _very _out of place.

John bit his lip as he saw Sherlock approaching it.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Sherlock, I had to investigate a bad smell" John said feebly.

"What was it?" Sherlock whispered.

"I'm not sure what it was; one of your experiments I guessed – small silver thing – smelt like rotten eggs."

"What did you do with it?" Sherlock asked turning sharply to John.

"I put it in a bag in the kitchen" John said blankly.

"You still have it?" Sherlock said cautiously.

"Yes, it's in the kitchen" John repeated.

Sherlock rushed past John and into the shared kitchen; he proceeded to throw things around to get to the desired object. Finally he found it and came back into the room examining it through the clear bag.

"What is it?" John asked curiously.

"Oh, nothing of consequence" Sherlock stated dully as he threw it into the shoebox. "Where is the CD?" he questioned lightly upon his glance into the blue cardboard box.

"In the living room, its still in the CD player, I listen to it almost every day" John said quietly as he sat on the bed to remove his shoes.

Sherlock nodded his head curtly before walking to the bathroom wordlessly.

John prepared himself for sleep and slid into the cold sheets of the abandoned bed; he had the sneaking suspicion that Mrs Hudson had remade it when they were out as there was no dust or cobwebs in the sheets.

Sherlock returned to the room, turning the light off as he entered it; he closed the door and latched it quietly before walking to the bed. John scooted over to the empty side; allowing Sherlock to clamber in between the warmer sheets.

"So, all that time; my 'ghost' didn't approach your room?" Sherlock mused quietly.

John smiled; "Until today".

"Well, he appeared when you had need of him; when things shifted in your pattern and you were upset, I imagine that there is a direct link there." Sherlock explained to the ceiling.

"You seemed to be well clued up on my ghost, Sherlock. How did you know to tell it to leave?" John asked as he turned on his side to face the taller man, it was then that John noticed Sherlock still wearing his wig.

"Easy." Sherlock muttered as he turned toward John; "I had one too"

John didn't blink or breathe for over a minute as he let this information sink in.

"Who was yours?" John whispered.

"You" Sherlock said with a slight smile. "Followed me _everywhere_, and I mean everywhere; including bathrooms and bedrooms." He said with slight amusement.

John managed a smile in Sherlock's direction; his eyes getting used to the darkness he could just see the whites of Sherlock's sharp eyes and teeth. "It's funny how the brain works sometimes." He mused.

"Is he…still around?" John asked.

"I thought about keeping him, but it annoyed me that he kept doing the same things, some of which you do not even do. So I told him to go away. One of the hardest things I've ever done." Sherlock whispered. "But I have one John here, why would another be required?" He said in an 'obvious' tone.

John smiled widely.

"I know the feeling, literally" John stated.

"John, would you be happy to be with me as a…life partner?" Sherlock blurted; his face showing no expression.

John's heart was hammering in his chest. "A l-life partner?" John asked hesitantly.

"Yes, I mean, I hope that you would come back to work with me; let me live here again and maybe…well, maybe become a romantic interest." Sherlock said boldly.

John felt the smile coming onto his face. "Why would the great Sherlock Holmes and his massive intellect need a romantic interest?"

Sherlock coughed awkwardly; "Well, I don't want you going out and getting interested in some _woman_ and leaving me alone here. I would be willing to share everything with you if you would abide by it."

John searched for Sherlock's arm under the duvet and grasped the taller man's hand tightly.

"Count me in" John said, his cheeks starting to hurt from the smiling he had been doing in one single day.

"Oh good" Sherlock said slightly sleepily. "Oh, but John. As much as I hate to admit it-" Sherlock was interrupted by John.

"I know, Sherlock, don't worry, there's no rush" Sherlock relaxed his hold on John's hand at his words. He was about to say that he had no experience in these matters, that he was in fact the virgin that Moriarty had labelled him as, but John knew.

"Sherlock?" John asked, suddenly sleepy.

Sherlock grunted lightly in reply.

"I hope you don't snore" John said with a smile.

"Not as badly as you, I assure you" Sherlock murmured, and with that he turned on his side and flung an arm over the soldier carelessly.

"Oh, Sherlock, I forgot; what about the CD?" John asked quietly.

"What about the CD?" Sherlock asked lazily, his deep voice so close to John that it made him shiver frantically.

"And the silver box thing; what were they for?" John asked.

"What else was in the box, John" Sherlock asked, his breath now ghosting over John's forehead.

"There was an empty jam jar, my old watch and a small notebook." John said slowly.

"What do you deduce from that?" Sherlock asked without opening his eyes.

"Well, it was my favourite Jam." John said "so you kept it, I dunno, to remember that?"

"I can see I'm going to have explain this then." Sherlock said in his dullest tone; "Empty jam jar, if you had looked closely, you would have seen lip markings around the rim – the jam jar was the very same one you had drank the dregs from to make a point – do you remember?" Sherlock asked, opening his eyes a crack to see John's amused face.

"The silver cube was an experiment to see what heat, sulphur and a few other hard-to-find chemicals created; the inspiration for that experiment was how you make me feel. I was trying to recreate the chemistry between us. The notebook was one I had purchased on that day in Dartmoor, the day I spent with you. I simply used it to write what was on my mind when you had fallen out with me" Sherlock muttered almost incoherently.

"_I_ didn't fall out with _you_ –" John started incredulously but was cut off as Sherlock launching into yet another of the explanations.

"As for the wrist watch; it was the only thing I remember from those hours I was drugged by Irene Adler. It was so important to me to hang onto it that I put it in the box instead of giving it back to you." Sherlock closed his eyes tightly at the admission but carried on to the last object;

"I made the CD from music I had heard on cab radios. I went through a phase of going on long journeys in London cabs and the radio would have some tune on it that reminded me of us. I would make a mental note of the song lyrics and later download them, listen to them and store them."

Sherlock finished and the room was left eerily quiet without the low continuous drone.

"I put them in the box because I didn't know what they meant, John" Sherlock stated plainly. "I do not understand my feelings for you, but I recognise that they are strong. Stronger than anything else I have felt as clearly I want to keep things that remind me of you."

John snuggled close to Sherlock in response before leaning back and carefully removing the blonde wig, running his hands through the dark curls that had been squashed underneath. Sherlock let a small contented sigh escape his lips as John did this.

"I love you, Sherlock" John murmured before placing his lips to the detectives.

The kiss was chaste and short but sweet. "I'm looking forward to growing old with you" John said as he snuggled in once more to Sherlock's bare chest.


End file.
